


An Incidental Tryst

by bethbek



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom!Sherlock, F/M, M/M, Serial Killers, Sexual Content, Vaginal Sex, Vigilantism, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:16:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethbek/pseuds/bethbek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During an enthralling case, prior to Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock makes a incidental, yet inevitable move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John sat at the table with a news paper and a bowl of cereal. Sherlock stumbles out of his room, draped in just his bed sheet, a yawn spread across his face. 

"Morning." John says. Sherlock grunts in retort and enters the kitchen to fetch a cuppa tea, John peering at his turned bottom. Sherlock joins John at the table, a steaming mug in his pale, veiny hand. "Any cases yet?" John adds. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and stares pedantically up at him from under his thick lashes. "Oh, yes John," he chimed sarcastically, "that is exactly why I am here, with you, in my bed sheet."

"Just a question." eyes still on his paper, "eating breakfast this morning are we?"

"Not hungry."

"Oh, cheer up, I'm sure someone will get brutally murdered to entertain you soon." 

"If only."

John smirked at his colleague as he stood up to rinse his now empty bowl. Sherlock glanced at John. Freshly showered, cleaned cuticles, pressed cardigan, light brown shoes, hair gel; date. 

"So whats this ones name?" he asks from the table. 

"Sorry, what are you on about?" John inquired, returning to the doorway. 

"Your date, her name. Where are you taking her? A cafe I presume, and then perhaps a movie." 

"What? Sherlock, no. Don't you remember?"

"Remember what?"

"Remember that last week we agreed that you and I are doing lunch today? At that new pizza place down the street."

"Oh, yes, that's right." His brow furrowed. Pizza? With John? How did he forget something like that? 

"What's the occasion?" Sherlock asks, "You never iron unless you're going on a date or special occasions." 

"Can't I look nice without this allegation?"

"No." 

John huffs in exasperation and rolls his eyes. "I don't really feel like getting into a row with you over my appearance today." he sighs, heading towards his room, "and put your trousers on!" 

"You put trousers on." 

 


	2. Chapter 2

"You know, you really didn't have to pay, John." the pair were wandering down the street, back to 221B.

"Oh, don't worry 'bout it. You've been a bit high strung lately, it was no big deal, really."

Sherlock smiled down at his colleague as he returned his gaze. 

"You know," John started, "you're not that horrible to be around when you're not being a prat." 

"Ah, yes," Sherlock chortled, "well, the same to you."

A vibration emitting from Sherlock's pocket interrupted them. 

"Sherlock Holmes." he answered.

"Sherlock. It's Lestrade, get to Ruskin park. I need your help."

"Now?"

"Yes, Sherlock, now!" With a swift motion he hung up and walked to the curb to hail a cab.

"Who was that?" inquired John.

"Lestrade," he said over his shoulder as a cab pulled over, "a case, John. A case!"

 

The entire park was cut off by the police, a large crowd gathered around, trying to see what the fuss was about. 

"What have we got?" asked Sherlock as Lestrade lifted the tape for them.

"Three black rubbish bags were found this morning, each containing a rather large chunk of a body. The victims name is Brian Creedo, he's a primary school teacher, or he was anyway. The body is completely drained of blood." he replied, the trio arriving at their destination.

"Here's your coffee, Mr. Lestrade," a petite voice sounding from behind them caused the three boys to spin around. A young woman, short in stature, with glossy red hair and stunning blue eyes, handed Lestrade a Starbucks cup. She wore a tight black pencil skirt, a freshly pressed button down, a pair of black heels, and carried a small black planner. 

"Ah, yes, thanks Mary. Sherlock, John, this is Mary, my new assistant." Lestrade said gruffly, gesturing to her. 

"Hello," she chirped behind thick lashes, reaching out to shake their hands. 

As she took Johns into her own, John found himself stuttering, "h-h-hi." Mary giggled in response. They said nothing more, he looked amorously down at her as she looked charmingly up at him. Lestrade cleared his throat, breaking the ongoing eye contact. Sherlock nodded in her direction, and she said a simple, "hi."

"Here, take a look," said Lestrade, opening the bags for Sherlock.

The bags had been strained around the opening, skid marks on grass, no clean cuts, wrists and throat slit, bruises and scrapes.

"Somebody drained him completely of his blood from the severed jugular and ulnar arteries before creating smaller pieces," Sherlock began, "the murderer used a butcher knife, one that hadn't been sharpened for a while. Who ever did this had a hard time transporting the body and he was dragged here from that car park over there."

"Well, I don't blame him." Lestrade guffaws, "Creedo's a fat bastard." 

John chuckled and Mary giggled as Sherlock started sauntering away. 

"Where are you going?" Lestrade called after him.

"There is no useful evidence here. Call me back when there's actually a case."

John shrugged, taking Lestrades hand in for a shake, "Sorry, Greg. Nice seeing you as always. Nice meeting you," he said turning to the redhead.

"The pleasure is all mine, John." she gleamed up at him. 

He started back after Sherlock, looking back over his shoulder at the girl with the unforgettable smile.


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh. My. God. . . SHERLOCK!" John yells across the flat, the jar of toenails in his hand, "Is this really necessary?!" he adds when Sherlock appears in the doorway.

"It's for research John. Now, put it back!"

"If I find a toenail in my food I will murder you. With a dull knife. And a spoon."

Sherlock merely rolls his eyes and goes back to his violin playing.

"I-I just can't deal with this shit right now." John mutters to himself, he grabs his jacket off the back of a chair and walks out of the flat, nearly knocking Mrs. Hudson over. Sherlock barely even notices his exit.

"Unbelievable." he mumbles under his breath, "Toena- _toenails?!_ "

John wanders around the streets of London for what seems like an eternity, with no destination and many thoughts running through his head.

 _I wonder what other severed limbs he's got in jars? I better not find one in my bedroom. I will_ kill _him if I do. Ugh, and he'll be on the damned violin all bloody day. I deserve an award for putting up with him._ Then most unexpectedly a pair of flawless blue eyes popped into Johns head, followed by a pair of lustrous red lips, and rosy cheeks. And before he knew what he was doing, his feet were on their way to the police department.

 

 

"John!" Lestrade exclaims, donut in hand, "What on Earth are you doing here?"

"To be honest I'm not entirely sure. Sherlocks driving me mad. Guess what I just found in the tea cupboard?"

"Oh, God, what?"

"A jar of toenails."

__" _Toenails?!_ "_ _

"Toenails."

"I don't particularly enjoy any body part in my tea." A smile erupts on Johns face as Mary enters the office, handing Lestrade a stack of papers.

"Nor do I." Lestrade says, mouth full of pastry.

"Speaking of tea," she adds, "either of you boys fancy a cup?"

"I'd love one, thanks." John says.

"Alrghty then, I'll be right back with the 2 mugs."

"Get 3," pipes Lestrade, "Join us wont you Mary? It's about time you went on break anyway."

"It'd be my pleasure." She chimes with a smile on her way out of the office.

John sighs, "May I just ask; what in the world is a girl like _that_ doing working for a guy like you?"

Lestrade chuckles, "Haha, I haven't the slightest clue, but I'm not about to complain now am I?"

"Here we are!" she says, returning with a tray, "anyone for sugar?"

"Oh, no. I'm sweet enough." Lestrade winks.

"Ha!" she huffs, "That's what _you_ think."

For the rest of the tea break, Lestrade ran his mouth a mile per minute. Mary sat quiet, legs crossed, peering up at John from under her loose ringlets, both hands curled into her chest playing with a strand of hair. John couldn't help but notice, and when she slowly and daintily licked her lips, a ripple of excitement quivered through him.

"Ok, well," she says gliding up off her chair, "I've really got to be getting back to work. You would not believe how much filing I have to do for this one." she laughs gesturing to Lestrade.

"Right," John adds also getting up, "I've got to be off as well."

"It was nice to see you again." smiled Mary on her way out the door.

"You know, I'm not about to ask her out." Lestrade says from his desk. John turns to face him. "I mean, not that she wouldn't go for me or anything, but you know there's the whole work relationship and I pride my self on being supremely professional."

"Is that so?" John asks mockingly.

"Well, I do enjoy how great her ass looks in those tight skirts . . . but other than that, completely professional."

"Haha, well, thanks for the tea Greg."

"No prblem, mate."

 

 

Just as he was leaving the front entrance he hears Mary call from behind him.

"John! Wait up!"

He turns to see her lightly jogging towards him, hair and other parts bouncing with her stride.

"Here," she says, handing him a small piece of paper, "It's my personal number."

"Oh!"

"I mean, maybe we, if you wanted, um, we could go out sometime?" she asked hopefully.

"I'd love to!"

"Really?"

"Yes, of course. Actually would you like to maybe, I dunno, come over to my flat this evening for dinner?"

"Absolutely." she confirms with a grin spread across her bright face.

"I'll see you later then." John returning her smile and licking his lips.

"Bye," she giggles, turning on her heel to go back down the hall. John walks out the door, he looks over her shoulder only to find that she is also.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know right now it seems like it's not going to happen, but trust me, your gay porn is comin.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock plays a specific piece on his violin in a certain scene within this chapter, if you wish to listen to it as the scene plays out the link is here ---> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_uA_W1wB5A

John bounces around the flat like an expectant puppy, tidying papers and trying to be rid of Sherlocks experiments.

"John! Put that back!" He shouts after him.

"I'm not about to leave a shop dummy out in the open for her to see! And go get dressed!"

"Wait! What are you doing with those papers?! NO! Don't mix them up! AARGGH! _JOHN!"_ he groans exasperatedly, still in his bath robe.

"Oh my god. Shut up, SHUT UP, _SHUT UP!!!_ "

"Fine!" Sherlock plops down into his chair, and plays the most obnoxious sounds on his violin.

"Sherlock?!"

"Yes, john?" he replies smugly.

"Could you not?"

"What?" he says, playing dumb without braking.

The sound of the doorbell silences them both. They exchange quick glances, and Sherlock leaps out of his chair, pushing John out of the way, his robe fluttering behind him. John chases after him. Sherlock yanks the door open, Mary is surprised to see him in such disarray, and John pushes him out of the door way.

"Um, hello." she says with a light chuckle.

"Hi!" John huffs.

"Please," Sherlock pipes from behind Johns tense shoulder, "do come in."

The two guide her up the stairs, and once in the flat John takes her coat.

"I'm sorry about the mess, Sherlock has been doing some tests."

"Oh, not a problem, you should have seen my Father, he collected books, and so there were piles of them in every room when I was little."

"A room without books is like a body without a soul." Sherlock says.

"Marcus Tullius Cicero." Mary replies.

"Yes, that right." he replies, a small half smile on his face.

"Right," says John, "Dinner should be out of the cooker soon. Would you like a drink?"

"I'd love one, perhaps a glass on pino nior?"

"John only drinks white wine," mentions Sherlock, "but Mrs. Hudson may have a bottle."

And without another word more, John bounds down the stairs. He returns a moment later, hands empty.

"Sorry, Mary." says John sheepishly.

"Oh, that's quite alright, white is fine."

The door creeks open and a frail Mrs. Hudson stands in the door way, a bottle in hand.

"I found this in the back of my cupboard! Oh, you must be Mary." She squeaks, handing the bottle over to John. "What a pretty face!"

"Oh, thank you," gleams Mary, blushing.

"And those nails! They're absolutely gorgeous! Are they real, dear?"

"Oh, no, unfortunately."

"Yes, well, thank you Mrs. Hudson," John cuts in, "I appreciate it."

 

After dinner the three are all sitting around the fire with some wine.

"And what of your parents Mary?" inquires John.

"Oh, they died when I was eight. House fire."

"I am so sorry."

"That's alright, it was a long time ago. Do you play the violin?" she changes the subject noticing the instrument in the corner.

"No, no. That's Sherlocks."

"Fantastic! I love the violin, though I prefer the cello. Won't you play a piece?"

"I don't see why not," Sherlock answers, "any requests?"

"Do you know Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor?"

"That I do." the first high pitched notes fill the room, Mary's heart lifting with the music. She taps her fingers along with the resonating music, nails tapping on her glass. The music picks up speed, Sherlocks hair bouncing with the abrupt movements.

"That was beautiful," Mary claps as the final notes dissipate.

"Thank you."

"More wine?" John asks standing up.

"Please," she chimes.

"You know a great deal about music and literature." states Sherlock.

"Yes, I studied the arts when I was at Cambridge."

"Quite an expensive school for an orphan."

" _Sherlock!_ " John gapes.

"It's quite alright, John," Marys eyes locked with Sherlocks, "I _was_ an orphan, I still am. There's no need hiding it from anyone. It would be the same as you avoiding people calling you detective."

Sherlock says nothing, a smug smile sits on his face.

"Oh," John blinks, returning to his chair, "right."

"I was left with quite an inheritance when my parents died." she says, still addressing Sherlock.

"Lucky you."

"Indeed."

 

The three friends talk for hours, going through one bottle of wine after another. At 2am Mary slips into an alcohol induced slumber, John lays her down on the couch, wrapping a blanket around her, before he retires to his bedroom.

 

It is 6 in the morning when Mary rouses.

"John?" she whispers as his door creaks open.

"Mary?" He answers, lifting his head and rubbing his light-sensitive eyes.

"I couldn't sleep," She climbs into his bed and shuffles close to him, "It's rather could out there."

"Well, here, let me warm you up." He wraps his strong arms around her shoulders, rubbing her arm tenderly. She lay with her head resting on his bare chest, fingers fiddling with his chest hairs.

"Ah, that tickles," he giggles.

He strokes her copper hair, gazing into her eyes as she peers back at him, eyes smoldering. Bringing his free hand to lift her chin, he licks his lips and arches his neck to embrace her lips in his own. Mary runs her fingers trough his sandy hair. She lifts herself to straddle him, breaking their kiss. His hands rest on her hips, she reaches down to the hem of her shirt, lifting it off with ease. His eyes linger down to take in her lacy, leopard print bra, breasts cradled perfectly inside. He grabs her by the hips, rolling her onto her back, leaning atop her. His lips meet hers with a fiery passion. Gliding his hands down her porcelain skin, he unbuttons her jeans. She arches her back, making it easier for John to remove them. Luckily for them both, he is only in his boxer briefs, which fall to the floor swiftly. He huffs as he struggles with the clasp on her bra.

"I can go fight in a war, but I can't undo a bloody bra!" he exclaims, his breath warm and heavy against the tender skin of her neck. "Ah-hah!" finally it hits the floor, next to Johns red pants.

John reaches over to his night table, searching for a condom.

"Oh, hurry up," she giggles.

"I've got one!" he sits up, still straddling her, and unrolls it onto his pulsing cock.

He bends down over top of her, and eases inside. She gasps as she takes in every inch of him, nails digging into his scared shoulder. He takes her cheek in his hand and kisses her tenderly, the rocking of their bodies synchronized and gaining speed. A small whisper of breath escapes her lips with every thrust. Reaching above her head, she grips onto the headboard. Moans and grunts break their lips apart, John traces his hand down the side of her, lifting her leg up over his shoulder.

"Oh," she inhales," Oh, _John!_ "

The intense pleasure of him makes her shiver and twitch, she lifts her head and nips at his shoulder, stifling the volume of her moans. John shakes in response to the feel of teeth on skin. The bed frame creaks with every movement. A wide wave of extreme bliss explodes from inside Mary, spreading to the far tips of her fingers and toes. John follows not 3 seconds behind her, letting out a quivering groan as he does.

 

Sherlock sits awake in his own bed. The white duvet feels unwelcoming as an inexplicable jealousy fills him.


	5. Chapter 5

"The victims name is Ralph Herrington. He was found by the river in 2 rubbish bags this morning," Lestrade says, guiding Sherlock and John down the bank of the River Thames, "The guy was in jail for ten years for killing two girls, but was recently let out early for good behavior."

"And why did you call me?" Sherlock inquires, "You wouldn't have unless something was different."

"Look for yourself." Lestrade replies, the three reaching the bags.

Sherlock takes a peek.

"No slit wrists," he notes aloud, "Three stab wounds to the stomach. By the way the skin is torn the killer was angry, using a lot of force, and by the angle they were driving their knife down, meaning he was lying on his back. The stabs were not the cause of death though, they were only meant to inflict pain. It was the severed jugular that was the real cause."

"Anything else you can find?"

Bags slightly torn. Small piece of plastic caught on rock up the bank. Earring in left ear. Skin slightly tanned everywhere except for a band on right middle finger.

"The bags were rolled this time, not dragged. The killer used the slope of the bank to get him here. He's got an earring, but his ring is missing. The killer must have taken it, most likely as a trophy."

"Ring? What ring?"

Sherlock sighs as clear frustration with Lestrades incapability to pick up on these things. "His ring! There's a band of skin on his right middle finger that is paler than the rest of him, meaning he wore a ring which he seldom took off, so he either could have lost it, which is highly unlikely, or the killer took it from him. . . But why him?"

"Beats me," Lestrade huffs.

"Vigilante, maybe?" suggest John.

"No, no, no," says Sherlock, "That makes no sense, Creedo was just a school teacher . . . unless. . . OH! Of _course!_ " Sherlock practically leaps into the air.

"What?" John and Lestrade ask in unison.

"Three years ago, a little girl from Creedo's third grade class went missing. The police never found her, and her parents said they last say her when they dropped her off for school. And then one year ago another girl went missing, same thing, body never found, parents last saw her at school. If you can find a link to these disappearances to Creedo we've got ourselves a vigilante! John, you're _brilliant!_ "

And in all his excitement Sherlock grabbed John by the collar and gave him a right big smooch on the lips.

"Alright," Sherlock continues, Johns eyes wide in disbelief, "You'll be looking for someone who most likely endured a childhood trauma, usually stemming in something to do with the parents. This killer is smart, organized, very meticulous and very clever not to get caught. They probably stalk their victims for weeks at a time before making their move. They'd have to lure them somewhere before the actual killing is done, and they probably gain their trust somehow, because I don't see how they could inconspicuously carry a man the size of Creedo over a far distance if they had such trouble dragging a third of him across a field."

"Alright," Lestrade pipes, bewildered, "I'll get my men on the Creedo theory."

They are about to leave when John notices Mary, and he jogs over to see her.

"Hey!" he says with a smile.

"Hi." she sighs.

"Listen, last night was amaz-"

"A mistake."

His face falls, "What?"

"Listen, John. You're such a great guy, but I'm going through a weird part of my life right now." she runs her hand down his arm, taking his hand for comfort, but he jerks it away, "I am so, so sorry, you must believe me. If I could be with anyone, it would be you. I hope we can still be friends?"

"Right," John sighs, staring at his feet, "Of course." And before she could say anything more, he turns on his heel, and walks away.

 

"A vigilante, John!" Sherlock exclaims, his loyal friends finally reaching his side, trying to keep up with his fast pace, "they're always so smart, so tricky. I - John?"

"Huh, what?" he says absently.

Sherlock stops and faces him, analyzing his expression, "What with the face? I thought you'd be happy."

"Oh, it's nothing, its just Mary. . . "

"Ah," he sighs, "She broke up with you."

"Yeah, well, it was bound to happen . . ."

"C'mon," Sherlock says, grabbing John by the elbow, "I'm taking you to a pub!"

"You? Take me? To a pub? I'm sorry, but, _what?_ "

"Isn't that what normal people do? Drink their feelings away?"

 

After far too many drinks, Sherlock practically has to drag John home, John slurring the entire way.

"Yuu know, she jus cant handdle all of thiis.." John says, gesturing to himself, "I guess Im jus a wild cat in bed, n she cnt deal wth me amazign stamna!"

"Ok, John."

"Jus wait to see, Sherlock," he chuckles, "Sherlock, funny name. . . Sherlock, Sher _mock_ , Sher _rock_ , Sher _cock!_ HA."

Sherlock shakes his head at his disorientated friend, "That's nice."

With a great struggle, Sherlock finally gets him home to 221B. He removes his shoes, his socks, and shirt, the whole while John spewing nonsense.

John is all snuggled into his bed, and Sherlock goes to leave, but John grabs his hand as he turns.

"Sherlock, you're a pain in my ass." John starts.

"Uh, Jo-"

"No! You jus shut- shut your mouth and listen to me." Sherlock sits down on the side of his bed, hand still resting inside of John's sweaty one, "You are a pain n my ass. And you drive me nuts all the time. And my life has been danger cause of you. But fer some reson, that I cnt explain, I fuckin love you, with your stupid face. Nd those bloody cheeek bones."

"John . . ."

"And that kiss today! WOW. You quite good at tha for someone whos never does it!"

Sherlock chuckles, "Goodnight, John."

John is practically asleep, as Sherlock gently gets up.

"Gerd night, Shirley." he mumbles.

Sherlock looks back and smiles at his friend, before closing the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spelling errors in Johns drunken state were intentional, they were put in to demonstrate Johns incoherence.


	6. Chapter 6

"Oh my god, my head." John, stumbles out of his room, pale and hungover.

"Ah, good morning, John," John sits down at the table, clutching his head, Sherlock sets a cup of coffee down in front of him. "How do you feel?"

"Is this . . . _coffee?"_

"Yes."

"Did _you_ make it?"

"Yes, John. I am capable of making a pot of coffee."

"Oh. . . I feel like shit by the way. What the hell even happened last night?"

"Don't you remember anything?"

"I remember going to the pub, I remember you pissing off the bar tender, and then I remember waking up in my own bed."

Sherlocks heart drops slightly.

"Wait. . ." John says scanning the flat, "did you _clean?_ "

"Yes, your point?"

"Why are you being like this?"

"Like what?"

_" _Nice._ "_

Sherlocks face falls.

"Oh, Sherlock, I didn't mean it like that. Thank you though, it's a lovely surprise." John smiles, Sherlock returns the warmth.

Sherlock phone vibrates on the table, breaking their eye contact.

"Sherlock Holmes." he answers.

"Sherlock. It's Lestrade. You were right on the Creedo thing. We just searched the guys flat and found locks of hair from the missing girls. So our best go is the vigilante theory."

"Alright, call me if anything new comes up."

"What's up?" John asks as Sherlock hangs up, sipping the coffee. 

"Creedo was found with locks of hair from the two girls in his flat."

"Sick bastard. . . good coffee, by the way." Sherlocks lips curl at the corners.

"Lets do something tonight," says Sherlock, "just you and I."

"Oh, Sherlock, I-"

"Nothing like last night, I swear. Maybe a movie? Or perhaps dinner?"

"Why are you so intent on pleasing me today? You usually are a bit more invested in yourself."

"I just, I want to be better." he mumbles in response.

"Well, alright I guess. Dinner sounds nice."

"Here, you've got something on you face." Sherlock reaches over, wiping the corner of Johns mouth, "Ketchup." he states and licks it off.

John cocks his head, bewildered.

"You never cease to surprise me."

Sherlock does nothing in response but smirk.

 

"John, you don't have to pay, really, it's ok."

" _No_ , Sherlock, you've been so good to me today. It's the least I can do. Why don't you go get us a cab?"

"Jo-"

"Go. Get. A. Cab." he affirms, pointing to the door.

Sherlock sighs, and stomps out the door.

Sherlock looks up and down the street but there are no cars in sight. Then in one fast instant, a bottle breaks over his head. He falls to floor, blinded and bleeding. He's disoriented and can't concentrate, but he can feel his pockets being searched, and his wallet being taken.

"Sherlock!" John yells, seeing his friend lying on the curb, "What happened?!"

Sherlock's head is spinning, but is finally coming to. John helps him sit up, and Sherlock places his hand over his gushing head.

"I was hit and my wallet and I'm bleeding. . . John?"

"Ok, it's ok, relax. Let's just get you home."

 

"Let me see." Sherlock sits on the toilet in the bathroom of 221B, cloth over his forehead. John stands over him with a medical kit.

"I'm _fine,_ John."

"Sherlock, you're bleeding from your head and you may need stitches. Just let me take a look. _Please?_ "

Sherlock looks up at him from under his fringe, Johns face is soft and warm with a quiant smile. Sherlock slowly removes the cloth, as the doctor shuffles closer.

"You've definitely got a chunk of glass still stuck in there," he picks up a set of tweezers, "Now, this will hurt."

As he goes to remove the piece, Sherlock winces and he grabs hold of the front of John's sweater, his knuckles going white.

"Ah, there we go." whispers John, dropping the glass into the rubbish bin, "Well, you don't need stitches, but I'm going to put some iodine on it, just to make sure it doesn't get infected. . . Here." John wraps his free hand over Sherlocks which is still attached to his sweater. As the iodine hits the wound Sherlock tenses up and John squeezes his hand for comfort. As the pain subsides Sherlock looks up at his friend.

"So, did you mean what you said? Last night?" 

"I don't know, what did I say last night?"

"That you love me."

"I, uhm, I didn-" Johns eyes go wide in his remembrance, "Oh my god." he whispers to himself. His heart races, eyes locked on to Sherlocks.

Sherlock delicately licks his lips. "Oh, fuck it." He sighs and pounces upward, taking Johns sweater in both hands, and, pushing him up against the wall, their lips meet hard with an intense need. Johns freezes, taken aback by the sudden gesture, but as Sherlocks warm lips meet his John melts into the welcoming touch, his eyes fluttering closed. He reaches around Sherlocks waist pulling him closer, hips grinding together. Sherlock releases his sweater, running a trembling hand up Johns chest to rest on his flushed cheek, the other hand wrapping his other arm around his broad shoulders. Sherlock moves his lips down to Johns neck.

"Sherlock, uh," John mumbles, his breath erratic.

"John," his breath heavy against his skin, "Just. Shut. Up."

Sherlock glides his hands down to the bottom of Johns sweater, lifting it over his head as Johns dog-tags fall back down with a light clink. Their lips meet once more, soft yet full of hunger. John pushes back against Sherlock, shoving him against the counter, his hand pulls open a drawer, lips still intent on Sherlocks, and searches around for lube. Grabbing Sherlock by the hips, lube in hand, John guides him backward out of the bathroom. They smash into the table, John grips him by the thighs, heaving him up onto the table. His hand quickly move up, fumbling over Sherlocks many buttons, before, in frustration, he rips the shirt open scattering buttons all over the room. Sherlock yanks Johns trousers down past his knees, his lips return not to Johns own, but to his shoulder, nipping and sucking, making John groan. They are now fully naked, writhing within each other. With great force, John drives Sherlock back onto the table, his breath puffs from is lungs as he impacts, his legs hanging around John. He lifts Sherlocks knee, and with intense eye contact, he starts placing little kisses trailing up his inner thigh. Sherlocks eyes close, small whimpers escape his mouth, and his back arches as Johns lips find his throbbing cock. He works it in his mouth up and down, tongue flickering against his shaft. As John releases him, Sherlocks eyes shoot open in disappointment.

"Don't worry," John purrs, puling Sherlock to his feet, "We're just getting started."

John spins Sherlock around, and taking a fistful of hair, forces him against the mantel. A slight pop sounds as John flicks the cap off the lube. Sherlock snatches the edge of the mantel, tensing and scattering items onto the floor as John inserts a well lubricated finger into him. Quickly he adds another and then one more, working and stretching him as best he can. Sherlock spins back around to face John, lips connecting once more. As John lifts him up against the fire place and Sherlock wraps his lanky legs around him. John thrust into him, Sherlock gasps loudly against his lips, arm outstretched, latching onto the ledge, knuckles white and veins protruding. He drives into him over and over again, biting at his neck, and scratches appear over Johns back as Sherlock drags his nails over him. Johns biceps bulge, lifting the weight of him. One hand firmly holding him in place, John brings his other and takes a fistful of that dark hair, he yanks his head back against the wall and Sherlock pants heavily as John kisses down his jawline to his Adams apple to his collar bone. John returns his hand to the underside of Sherlocks thigh. Sherlock grazes his fingers down the front of John, and clasps them around his own distressed cock, and works it up and down, twisting and turning.

"I can't, oh, I can't . . . _hold._ . . " Sherlock whimpers, eyes squinched.

"Then . . . don't." John huffs in response.

His body tenses, his toes curl, and with an eruption of ecstasy, Sherlock comes full and powerful. John follows suit not five seconds later. The two collapse to the floor with a loud thud, intertwined in each others arms and sticky. Sherlock lies on top of him, his head resting on his heaving chest. John reaches up and brushed the curls of hair off his sweaty forehead as Sherlock starts giggling uncontrollably, which in turn, makes John do the same.

The room is a mess, clothing items strewn all around, papers carelessly flung from the table, and nick-knacks scatter the floor around the fireplace.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock stirs in his large warm bed, his arm reaches out to embrace John, but his bed is empty. His eyes flutter open and he sits up to scan the room. He's not here.

He wanders out to the main room, buck naked.

John almost spits out his coffee, "Jeeze, Sherlock, what happened to your sheet?"

Sherlocks brow furrows, "Well, I guess I thought that wouldn't matter anymore," he mumbles, turning back to his bedroom. In his room, he gets a text. 

 

> _We've got another one_
> 
> _London Library_
> 
> _14 St James's Square  
>  Westminster_
> 
> _-Lestrade_

 

"Victims name is Niel Baumgardener," says Lestrade in the alley, "Killed same as Creedo was, no criminal record, as far as we can tell, but I've got some of my men digging for dirt on the guy."

"Hi," says John to Mary, as the redhead gives him a bright smile.

Sherlock whips his head to look down at him, but John ignores him. Sherlock sighs exasperatedly, and crouches down to examine the two halves of the body. As he rumages through the bags, examining wounds, he pulls something out of the dead mans leg. standing back up he turns it over in his hand. 

"Fingernail. Oh my, oh my, our killers a woman!" Sherlock exclaims, placing the nail into an evidence bag and handing it over to Lestrade, "Get this anylized. Makes perfect sense though, with the trouble transporting and such, and going by the fact that all of the victims have been men thus far, it is probable that she seduces them to get them to the prime killing location. Smart girl. And judging the fact that Johns eyes are practicaly glued to Marys chest we can assume he really doesn't give a _shit_ about what happened last night."

He turns briskly, trotting the other way.

" _What?"_ asks Lestrade, looking confused after him, he turns to John, "What happened last night?"

"None of your business, Greg," he sighs and jogs off trying to get caught up to his friend.  

 

 

Back at 221B Sherlock stomps up the stairs, John on his heels. 

"Sherlock, what the _hell_ was that?"

"Oh, don't give me that _stupid_ look," he whips his jacket off and throws it over a chair. He paces the flat, hands on his hips, "Was this your plan? Use me as a one-time _fuck_ whilst wallowing in your pit of misery, until she took you back?"

"What? _Who?!"_

" _MARY_ , JOHN!"

"Oh, don't be _rediculous!_ "

"Oh, please. I see the way you look at her," he snarls. 

"Why do you even care, huh?"

"Why _wouldn't_ I?!"

"BECAUSE YOU NEVER DO, SHERLOCK!" John screams. 

The acusation hits Sherlock like a London bus to the gut, and he stops dead in his tracks, staring at his toes. 

"When have you _ever_ cared about _anything_ besides yourself?" John adds. 

Sherlock sighs, and looks back up at John, " _Wow_ . . . You know what," he digs through his pocket, "Here." He throws something silver to the floor, it hits with a small clink. "I was going to give it to you when the time was right, but apparently _I don't care._ " Sherlock yanks his jacket and scarf back off the chair and stomps down the stairs, the door slamming behind him.

John wanders over to the fallen item and crouches down to pick it up. He runs it over in his fingers, it's a handmade dog tag, like the ones he wears around his neck. It reads:

 

> _For my dear Watson_

_  
_He stands back up, removing the chain from his neck and adds the new tag to it, tears welling up in his grey eyes. John needs to clear his head, so he decides to go for a walk.

 

"John!" he spins around to find Mary standing behind him, in the dark street. 

"Oh, Mary, hi. What're you doing around here?"

"Oh, I just came from a nail appointment. What's wrong, you look sad?"

John, says nothing but looks to the ground.  _Don't cry,_ he thinks,  _don't you dare cry._

"Does it have something to do with Sherlock?" she asks and John nods, "Does it have something to do with me?" he nods again. She sighs, "Oh, I'm sorry, you know, I have absolutely no intention of coming between you. I only wish to be friends, truly. . . Hey, why don't you come over, I'll make you a drink."

"Oh, I don't think that's a good idea. . ."

"Oh, c'mon. I'm a great listener you know. I mean you have to be working for Greg." She gives him a hearty smile, "Just one drink." 

 

 

Sherlock is with Lestrade at his office.

"So, I've been doing some research," Lestrade starts, "Baumgardener was suspected for the murder of his wife a few years back, but here's the thing, the whole ordeal was kept out of the news because there wasn't any real evidence to pin on the guy. The only record of anything are in classified police reports. There's no way our killer could have known."

"Unless she had access to these files."

A young man walks in with a diagnostics report for Lestrade.

"Wheres Mary?" Sherlock inquires. 

"She had an appointment. She was going to come in after but I just got a text, shes having John over for drinks."

Sherlock purses his lips, he feels as though his heart has dropped a million feet. 

"Oh, shit." Lestrade sighs, reading over the report, he hands it over to Sherlock.

"100% Accrylic. . ." reads Sherlock, "So, she's got fake nails, and access to police files. . ."

 

 

Mary sits next to John on the couch in her living room and hands him a drink.

"So, tell me," she says, intent on John, "what happened."

"It's all my fault really." he says taking a large gulp, the liquid burning as its swallowed.

"Oh, I doubt that."

"It was. Every thing was good,  _really_ good. But you know, I'm not used to these sorts of things. I was nervous, and I ruined it." He takes another drink. 

"Oh, honey, these things happen you know. You just got to make it up to him somehow." 

"Yeah," he sighs, "Yeah! You're right! I'm going to go find him." He shoots up, but falls back down, the world is spinning, items bouce in and out of focus. 

"Oh, wow." he says holdig his head, but the feeling doesn't go away. He starts sweating profusely, his heart is racing, he becomes noxious, and he falls face first to the floor. His phone vibrates and he tries to reach it but his arms are useless.

 

 

"Oh, pick up, pick up, pick up." Sherlock snarls into his phone.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" asks Lestrade.

"I didn't think anything of it, her nail was broken!"

"John can't come to the phone right now," Sherlocks eyes go wide as the woman answers. Panic floods his heart as the line goes dead.

He drops his phone, it shatters against the floor, as he races out of the office. 

"Sherlock what is it?!" Lestrade calls after him.

_"MARY!"_

 


	8. Chapter 8

John groans as he returns to conciousness, the flourecent lights blindind him. The room he's in has no windows, it smells dank, as if there is a leaky pipe near by. Exposed pipes litter the roof, climbing down to the walls, and blood stains the broken white tiles on the floor around him. He's lying naked on a rusty old operating table, hands and feet in restraints. He tries to break free but they're too strong. 

"How was your sleep?"

John lifts his head, Mary stands at the foot of the table, light dances off a shimmering knife she plays with in her hand.

_"Mary?"_

"I'm sorry it has to end like this, John, really I am."

"Then why are you doing this?"

"Because you and your little boyfriend were getting too close to uncovering my little hobby. Oh, don't worry though, he'll be joining you soon."

"But why kill people, I don't understand-"

"I don't expect you to," she starts circling the table like a vulture circles a carcass, "No child should _ever_ be put through the things I have."  _just keep her talking,_ John thinks, "I was only eight when it happened, you know. I was enjoying a hot cup of cocoa with those little marshmellows with my mum when we heard the window upstairs shatter. She put me in the broom cupboard and told me not to come out, no matter what happened. I can still hear my parents scream as the two men in masks beat my father until I could no longer recognise his face, as they raped my mother, as they tied them to kitchen chairs, and as the men poured gasoline over them both before striking a match. I barely made it out alive myself."

"I am so, so sorry Mary, truly, but you have to stop this." John pleads.

"Why?"

"Because it's not right!" 

"But it's _fun_." she replies with a little smirk, "Oh, go on, ask me!"

"Ask you what?" 

"How I do it, of course! They always do. They love trying to figure out a way to avoid their imminent death at my hand."

"Alright . . . How do you do it."

"It's great fun really," she starts, grinning down at him, "I befriend them first, you boys are so blinded when you've got boobs in your face, I bring them back here, slip a bit of GHB in their drink, and drag them down to the basement. This is where it  _really_ gets fun. I undress them, burn their clothes for good measure and strap them down. I have to admit that part was a bit . . . _interesting,_ when it came to Creedo. I tell them why they're on my table, and then I play Johan Sebastian Bach's _Cello Suit No. 1_ before I take something of theirs, usually a piece of jewelery-"

"Herrington's ring." states John.

"And your dog tags." John face hardens, "Then I cut their wrists and throats-"

"But you stabbed Herrington in the stomach?"

"Oh, yeah, he was pissing me off. Anyway, I then drain their bodies and cut them up into smaller pieces, makes it less messy you know." 

"Wait, wait, wait," John stalls, "What about Baumgardener? What did he do?"

"Killed his wife. The only reason I found out was because, luckily for me, Lestrade leaves his computer unlocked." She walks over to the wall where an iPod dock sits and hits the play button. The warm music of the cello fills the hallow basement. She closes her eyes for a moment, revelling in the sound of it. Reopening her eyes she starts towards John, who begins trying to break free once more. Mary reaches up and yanks Johns dog tags from his neck. 

"Aw, how sentimental," she sighs, reading over the new addition, "Such a shame really, young love, a blooming romance. Also you're rather good in bed." She grins, fastening the chain around her neck. 

"No, Mary, please think about what you're doing-" John insists.

"Goodbye, John."

And with a swift motion, like the way a delicate bow glides over the strings of a cello, Johns wrist is slit open, blood pooling immediately. 


	9. Chapter 9

_"NO!"_

Mary whips aroud to find Sherlock blundering down the stairs.

"Well, well, well. Look who it is! Isn't it the great Sherlock Holmes," she growls. He starts towards her, fuming, "Ah, ah, ah!" she says dangling the knife in his direction, stopping him about five feet in front of her.

"John?" he huffs, " _John?!"_

 _"Sher. . ."_ he replies, loosing conciousness.

Sherlock dives at Mary, the knife slitting open his bicep. He grabs her wrist and punds her hand against the wall, the knife flying from her hand, clattering across the tiles. She wriggles a hand free and her nails come clawing down across his face, kneeing him in the stomach, she sends him onto his back. She lunges for the blade, but Sherlock gets her by the ankles, tackling her to the ground. Mary drives her fist up into Sherlocks nose, blinding him, before twisting him around so that she straddles him, pinning him to the cold floor. Her hand comes down hard against his face, blood masking his features. She goes for the knife once more, but Sherlock is determined, he leaps for her smashing her against the wall. 

A gasp escapes her mouth, cold blue eyes piercing his. Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth as she looks down, a stray pipe jutting out from her stomach, scarlet dripping to the white tiles. Her eyes return to his, brows arched, eyes pleading.

"These don't belong to you," he snarls, yanking the chain from her neck.

With a sigh her body goes limp, the life ebbing from her eyes.

Sherlock yanks the scarf from his neck, running over to John. He wraps the blue cloth around his wrist, and hastily unshackles his hands and feet. He collapses to the floor, dragging John down into his lap, cradling him. 

"Hey, hey," he whisers, hand on Johns cold pale cheek, "John, stay with me!," tears begin to spill from his eyes, "Please, oh god, _please!_ John!" Johns eyes are going vacant, his breathing is erratic. Those familiar grey eyes, half lidded, look up into Sherlocks own. "Don't you _dare_ leave me," Sherlock continues, rocking his doctor in his lanky arms, "Do you hear me? You _can't,_ I won't let you! I _need_ you, John, I'd be nothing without my blogger. God  _dammit_ , John! I need you so much, I mean, I bloody _love_ you, you idiot!" 

Lestrade and his men finally flood into the basement, Greg freezng at the sight.

"So you see? You can't go! _Please_. . ." he whispers, but Johns eyes close, drifting away, and Sherlock rests his forehead against Johns, shoulders shaking incontrolably. 

 

 

 

_*beep*            *beep*             *beep*_

Johns, eyes flit open, flourecent lights blinding him. He's in a hospital bed, Sherlock asleep in a chair next to him, curled over, his head resting next to John on the bed. John reaches down and runs his fingers through the familiar dark curls, and Sherlock wakes with a jolt. 

"John! Oh, do- do you need anything? Can I get something? Water? Or a pillow? Or-" Sherlock wriggles in his chair. 

"No, Sherlock, I'm - I'm fine, just stop."

"Oh . . alright." Sherlock settles back into his chair, and clasps Johns hand in both of his, eyes intent on his friend.

"God, Sherlock, you look like shit." John was right. Sherlocks nose was broken, he had two black eyes, and his arm had been neglected. Blood splattered down his front. 

"I wouldn't leave you."

A massive grin erupts onto Johns face.

"What?" inquires Sherlock.

"So you think I'm an idiot then?"

" _What?"_

"That's right," John scoffs, "I heard you. I mean, I was practically unconcious, but I heard you."

Sherlock sighs, "Alright, you got me," he smiles.

"I can't believe you said it though. I never would have though I'd hear the words _'I love you'_ come out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth."

"Well, I won't be repeating it." Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Oh, c'mon then, just once more?" John beams.

"No."

"I am in a hospital, on my death bed, and I want you to say those three words."

"John, you're not dying-"

"Don't change the subject!"

Sherlock sighs exasperatedly, eyes in his lap, "fine . . . I can't believe I'm doing this," he murmers to himself, "I . . . I, uh, love you. . ." 

"Good. Cause I bloody love you too."

"Really?" Sherlock says, eyes whipping back up to Johns.

"Of course you idiot."

For what seems like an eternity they gaze into each others eyes, glowing.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" Sherlock pipes, rumaging aroung in his pocket, "Here. These are yours." He stands up and returns the dog tags to their rightful home. He goes to sit back down, but John catches him by the wrist, pulling their lips together. 

"Oh. My. God." Lestrade gapes from the door way, breaking the pair apart. "Well, I wasn't expecting this."

"Oh, what do you want." Sherlock hisses, plopping back down into his chair. 

"To see how he was doing. Glad you're back John. You had us all pretty worried back there."

"Thanks, Greg."

 

 

 

Sherlock helps John out of the cab and guides him home to 221B.

"Oh, John, dear!" Mrs. Hudson squeeks, "So happy you're home!"

"Thanks Mrs. Hudson," he replies as she gives him a kiss on the cheek. 

"So, I've ordered us some take-away and a movie." Sherlock says, putting the kettle on. 

"Oh, perfect," John calls from the couch.

Sherlock brings out two mugs for them both, and settles in beside John.

"You look like a raccoon," John chuffs.

"Oh, don't remind me."

"A cute raccoon, though," he smiles, placing light kisses over each of Sherlocks eyes. 

For the rest of the movie, John snuggles into Sherlocks chest, head resting under his chin, Sherlocks legthy arms wrapped aroung his shoulders.

"Well, c'mon then," John says, sliding off the couch as the end credits roll, "I reckon it's time for bed."

"But it's only nine o'clock."

"Well, I don't plan on sleeping."

_"Oh."_

John takes Sherlock by the hand, guiding him to the bedroom. The couple fall to the bed, engulfed in each others arms, Johns hands intertwined in Sherlocks thick locks. Sherlock hovers over John, back arched, their tongues darting around each other. John unbottons Sherlocks shirt, dragging it down over his shoulders, and he moves his lips to the bandage on his arm, placing little kisses over it. John grabs Sherlocks hips, fliping him over onto his back, removing his own shirt before moving to the buttons on Sherlock trousers. Both their trousers are on the floor, and John moves from Sherlocks mouth, down his jaw, to his neck, then chest, stomach, nuzzling into his hardening bulge, before trailing his kisses along his inner thigh. Sherlock whimpers, throwing his head back. John slips Sherlock pants down his legs, before removing his own. John climbs back on top of Sherlock, and Sherlock traces the outline of Johns old battle wound on his shoulder with delicate finger tips. The doctor pulls a small bottle of lube out from the bedside table, slicking up his fingers and twiching cock. John slips a finger inside, making Sherlock moan, and with a slight curl of the finger, he finds his prostate, and Sherlocks hands cling to the covers. John quickly adds another, sliding them both in and out. 

"Oh, _fuck,"_ Sherlock huffs. 

John pulls Sherlocks hips closer to his own, wrapping his legs around his waist. He postitions himself, and slowly pushes inside. Sherlock grips Johns tense shoulders with a bruising force, their lips frantic for each others. The pace begins slow, their bodies rocking together, as John thrusts faster, snapping his hips hard into Sherlock. John glides his shaky  hand up Sherlocks arm, intertwining their fingers tgethir above their heads. Sherlocks own stiff cock rubs against Johns stomach with ever buck. John looks fondly down at Sherlock, whos face is strained, hair saturated, chest heaving. Johns thrusts become erratic and discoordinated, and Sherlock, arching his back, explodes in a wave of heat, soon after followed by John, sweat dripping down his spine. 

The two clamber into each others arms, hearts thumping in unison. John traces his finger over Sherlocks cheek bone and over his features.

"I want to remember you just like this," he whispers, "all sweaty, naked, and simply you. No sheild, no incesent deductions. Just you."

Sherlock takes Johns cheek in his hand, drawing him in for a kiss. 


	10. Chapter 10

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

Sherlock chortles, gazing down at his best friend as a tear rolls down his face, "I researched  you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you," he sniffs, "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

Johns eyes are squeezed shut, shaking his head in disbelief. "No. Alright, stop it now." He starts towards the hospital. 

"No, stay _exactly_ where you are. Don't move." Sherlock says urgently, hand out reached towards John. John backs up, hand out reached to Sherlock. 

"Alright."

Sherlocks breathing becomes rushed, "Keep your eyes fixed on me," voice frantic, "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" 

"This phone call - it's, er . . . it's my note. It's what people do, don't they, leave a note?"

John shakes his head, removing his phone from his ear, as he begins to understand the situation. His voice is shaky, "Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No. Don't."

Sherlock gazes down at his love for a few seconds, and drops his phone. He raises his arms, and falls.

"NO! _SHERLOCK!"_

"Um . . ." John stands in front of the headstone, "You . . . you told me once that you weren't a hero. Uhm . . . there were times times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this; you were the best man, and the most _human_ . . . human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so . . . there." He exhales shakily, and walks up to the headstone and traces his fingertips over he cold marble. "I was _so_ alone, and I owe you so much." Tears roll down his flushed cheeks, "ok. . . " He turns away, but stops. "No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing; one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't . . . be . . ." his voice breaks, ". . . dead. Would you do . . . Just for me, just stop it. Stop this."

He sighs lowering his head in defeat. Broken and empty. He places a hand over his face, his shoulders shuddering. He wipes his eyes, and raises his face. He nods in salute towards the marble slab. He turns quickly on his heel, and walks away. 

 

 

 

John sits in his chair, gazing out the window, the fire across the room crackling, but his cold heart is impenetrable. He watches as a wide array of people walk by; a pair of two young girls giggling amongst themselves, arms linked. _How can thay smile?_ John thinks. An elderly woman walks with a small child, guiding him by the hand. _How can they manage to be so damn happy when I feel like this?_ A man leans against a light post across the street, reading a news paper. A silent tear rolls down Johns cheek. He sniffles, stands up, and retreats from the window.

The man lowers the news paper to reveal a blue scarf.

Sherlock stands looking longingly up at the window of 221B Baker Street. How he misses the comforting embrace of his only friend. The soft kisses they stole on lonely, cold nights. Their shouting and bickering over experiments and messes. How John would always grab Sherlock by the face, bringing him into a passionate kiss after a heated arument. 

Sherlock wants his John back.

He wants to go home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted this fic to be sort of like a missing episode from the series, one that would fit completely in with the story line.


End file.
